Себастьян Кастелл - Traitor's Blade

‘We all dream of meeting the Saints when we die, don’t we?’ the Duchess of Hervor said. ‘Well, now you have, and now you will.’

The guard removed his helm. He had short red hair and piercing eyes and his face was red, the colour of spilled blood. The air glowed red around him. At the sight of him our horses reared and then let out terrified screams as they raced from the clearing.

‘Gods and Saints,’ Brasti whispered.

‘We prefer it if you don’t summon us in vain,’ said Caveil-whose-blade-cuts-water, the bloody-faced Saint of Swords. ‘Sometimes it even makes us angry.’

‘It’s not possible,’ I said. ‘Saints don’t …’

My mind raced, trying to understand what was happening. Was this a ruse? Was this just a scary man with a painted-red face? But the arrow—

‘Oh, it’s not as difficult as you might think,’ the Duchess began. ‘If you try hard enough and you’re willing to make sacrifices, you can work out an amicable arrangement with anyone, really.’

She rose and said, ‘This is my negotiating position: you can duel my champion, lose, and then I’ll take the scrolls and your lives, or you can try and run, Saint Caveil will kill you, and then I’ll have the scrolls and your lives anyway.’

‘What’s the difference?’ I asked, still staring at a Saint walking the Earth.

‘My way you get to die doing something grand and honourable. I know how much that means to you, Falcio.’

The Saint removed his armour, a piece at a time, revealing a powerful, lean frame underneath. He wore a black jerkin that covered his torso; where his skin was revealed it was as blood red as his face. Despite all that, his appearance didn’t impress me all that much more than a hundred other opponents who were equally muscled and tattooed. But somehow you could sense the power in him. A Saint: the ultimate expression of an ideal, in this case, the mastery of the sword.

Well , I thought, if I have to die, at least there is a pretty damn good chance someone will write a song about it . Except that he was going to kill all of us regardless, and then there wouldn’t be anyone to tell the story. Unless, of course, the Duchess would oblige.

‘All right,’ I said, pulling my rapier from its scabbard.

The Saint laughed. ‘You? Don’t be silly. You don’t even hold that thing properly.’

He turned to Kest. ‘You. You’re the one I’ve come for.’ Then he looked Kest in the eye. ‘You’ve always known it, haven’t you?’

‘I have,’ Kest said simply.

‘And you know how this is going to end, don’t you?’

‘I do.’

Caveil smiled. ‘It’s not good to put yourself above a Saint, child.’

Kest shrugged. ‘A Saint is really only a little God, after all.’

The Saint kept smiling. ‘I like that coat, though,’ he said. ‘May I have yours after you’re dead?’

‘Marked. I have one request in return,’ Kest said.

‘That sounds reasonable, if pointless.’

‘Let my friends go first. If I lose, you’ll have no trouble catching them, and if I win, they deserve a head start in case the Duke’s men arrive.’

‘Unacceptable,’ the Duchess said. ‘Your friends stay here. This won’t take more than a few seconds.’

The Saint kept his eyes on Kest, but he spoke to the Duchess. ‘Keep silent, woman. Your braying offends me.’

‘You are marked,’ she began.

‘I am marked,’ he said, ‘to kill this man. But I have not come here to destroy with a single stroke. You will have your vengeance, but I will have my sport. Fear not, I grow bored easily, and I am sure this one will suit me for only a few seconds. You can hold the scrolls ’til then, if it pleases you.’

The Duchess grabbed the scrolls from Valiana and inspected the seals.

Kest turned to me. ‘Go. Take the others. The hells with what the Tailor said. Run fast and run hard.’

There was no point in arguing: one of us or five of us, we didn’t have a chance against the Saint of Swords. But if we could run and catch the Fey Horse, I might be able to get Valiana and Aline on it; they’d have a chance to flee the Duke of Jillard’s army, if the Duchess had spoken true and the Duke of Orison’s men weren’t behind us.

‘Get ready,’ I told the others. ‘We go for the trees and into the fields.’ I doubted she was stupid enough to believe me, but I didn’t feel like really telling her where we were going.

I turned back to Kest to say goodbye. He was my oldest friend and he was about to die to give me one last, hopeless chance.

‘Kest?’ I said.

He was staring at Saint Caveil, who stood smiling at us, his feet shoulder-width apart and his sword resting casually in one hand.

‘Can’t … see,’ Kest said, squinting his eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. Had Caveil done something to his eyes? Do Saints cheat?

‘Falcio, I can’t see … I can’t see him moving his sword …’ Kest’s eyes were blinking furiously and he was breathing strangely.

I looked back at the Saint. He hadn’t moved.

‘Kest, what are you talking about? He’s not moving.’

‘Listen,’ Kest said. ‘Just listen.’

I did, and at first I thought I was just hearing the wind from the east, but then I found a rhythm to the gentle whooshing; an almost-melody of subtle vibrations: the sound a fine sword makes when it cuts the air.

I looked back at bloody-faced Saint Caveil who didn’t appear to be moving at all but was cutting the air with his sword so quickly my eyes couldn’t see it.

‘I can almost … almost make it out,’ Kest mumbled. ‘A blur … yes, there it is, no, wait … almost …’

I didn’t know what I could do for Kest. ‘Go,’ I shouted to Brasti and the others.

Kest grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eyes. He looked crazed. ‘Falcio, I need you to do something for me.’

‘Anything,’ I said.

‘You beat me – that one time at the castle, you beat me. Tell me how you did it. Maybe I can … maybe there’s something I haven’t tried, something I haven’t seen, or some technique—’

My heart fell. I could have lain down on the ground and simply let the Saint kill me, or the Duke’s army run right over me, or any of a hundred other deaths that awaited me. For my whole life Kest had been like the mountains or the oceans or the sky: he feared nothing and was angered by nothing. Everything was simply interesting to him – and now he was going mad.

I put my hands on his shoulders and whispered into his ear, and I told him how I had beaten him that day at Castle Aramor. And when I was done, I kissed him on the forehead and said goodbye.

He gave me a little smile for a second and said, ‘Well now, I don’t think that’s going to work here, is it? But I suppose anything’s worth trying once.’

And with that he turned and gave a war cry, which I had never heard him do, and his sword flashed under the sun as he walked towards the Saint of Swords, and I turned and ran as fast as my legs would take me.

When the Ducal armies arrived at King Paelis’ castle they brought five hundred horse, a thousand foot, two hundred archers and a host of siege engines, enough men to fight a war that could rage for weeks. When they reached the front gates they met Pimar, the King’s valet.

Pimar was a good boy, eleven years old and eager to please, and when the vanguard reached the gate he opened it for them and asked if anyone wished some refreshment to clear their throats from the dusty ride. In his left hand he held out the King’s crest, and in his right he held a treaty signed by the King and the First Cantor of the Travelling Magisters.

According to Pimar, the generals spent some time reading the document and then turned to Pimar and asked that tea and biscuits be set out for them. And they asked to see me.